Sinister Beat
by planet p
Summary: A series of improbable pairings: Ronon/OFC, Ford/Repli!Made!Clone!Elizabeth, Kavanagh/OFC, Michael/Heightmeyer
1. Chapter 1

**Sinister Beat** by planet p

**Disclaimer** I don't own _Stargate: Atlantis_ or any of its characters.

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1 of ?

**A Warrior's Spirit**

The livestock were restless. The female Wraith would not drain them completely; such an action would draw attention, cause people to sit up and take notice, and such attention was unwanted. Instead, Thira would take her sustenance from several of the creatures and in that way the loss would be spread across the creatures, a move that usually did not kill, but left the creatures in a weakened, listless state; usually this number was twelve to fourteen of the creatures.

The small, slight woman had once been a Queen and a feared ruler before her capture by Michael, a Wraith-Human hybrid shunned and outcast by the others of his kind following his escape from the humans who'd changed him, experimented upon him to create this strange, new being.

Thira's first thought – and first fear – upon capture was that she was to be executed. For many hours and many days this thought consumed her, more even than the dreadful, twisting, aching hunger, loathe and shamed as she was to admit, if only to herself. In time, however, Michael's plans became plain to her, though never formally revealed.

What Michael planned to do to her was worse, far worse than death. It drove the once fearsome Wraith Queen insane four times over, until, at the end of the experimentation, she could no longer claim to be Basillia, or even a shell of Basillia – she was no longer what she'd been, but a Wraith-Human hybrid!

At the time of her escape, she'd not known that the changes that had been made to her had been done so to enable her the ability to interbreed with humans, and to birth children in the way that humans did.

What she did not know, however, became apparent with the meeting of a warrior of Sateda – perhaps the last Satedan warrior, she often pondered – in the forest the harsh, unforgiving desert, prone to month-long sandstorms, into which she'd flung herself, tired, mutated, disillusioned, and prone to fits of paralysing anger.

She was not like other Wraith, nor was she like other humans; neither party would have her, she knew. In the eyes of the Wraith, she was wrong, weak, she was an abomination, and in the eyes of the humans she was all of these things and more, she was the enemy, the culler, killer, murderer of their kinds, a thousand, a hundred thousand times over. She belonged with no one; she belonged nowhere.

In the desert, she was not searched for, not hunted, not sought after. She learnt to let go of her anger, learnt to let go of her fear.

She journeyed to a pit stop – one of many – when the caravans and their traders came by, but avoided travel to the settlements, and longed one day to visit the large city, Renmar, she'd heard of from the talk of traders. Of course, the city was as much out of bounds as the settlements.

She was Wraith, yet she was human also. She could no longer feed upon humans, though she very much wanted to.

Until, one day, she came upon a warrior, surely fatally injured, and abandoned, in the desert. He was human, her eyesight told her this. He was part what she was. Yet, he was dying, as she knew all things did in the end, and must. But unlike the traders that she'd come across, he looked at her and she meant something; he looked at her and saw that she was human too and he didn't just look past her. She was not just one more, but the only one.

Out here, in the lonely desert, she was, for a brief moment, a link to what he even then desperately clung to. Then the moment passed, and she became an unreachable memory of the past, a last memory that would be there to see him off into the next world, the next life.

Thira gazed at him and felt great sadness. A warrior should not die like this, she thought, and, at that moment, she decided that this warrior – this day – would not die like this. Another day, on another world. So she reached inside and dug out the part of her that was Wraith, the part of her that had never been warrior – had been taker, but not giver – and gave him back his life, one for one hundred thousand.

* * *

When he'd awoken, he'd not remembered what she'd done, or how she'd done so, but then the roles had been reversed, then she was the vulnerable one, and he'd looked out for her, and when she'd recovered, they'd travelled together to the pit stop, but the caravans hadn't been visiting then, so they'd journey to the next pit stop, and the next, until finally they'd come to a pit stop where the caravans had stopped and travelled with the caravans to the large city, and there, the warrior, Ronon, was able to send a message to his people, and when his people came, Thira had to hide, for fear of them discovering what Ronon had not – for fear of Ronon offering her a home with his people, close to him.

She would not hurt Ronon; she would not hurt the people he cared about, would not hurt his people. So she fled. She could not hurt him in her memories.

It had been two months passed following Ronon's departure that she had learnt that he'd left more than an absence in her soul – a hole in her heart – that he'd left something, someone to stopper that hole, to help it heal, and that that someone was a child she would name Deyzi.

Even at two years, Deyzi was a princess. Deyzi had taken neither her mother's pale complexion, nor her fair hair. She was like her father in almost every way, save that she had taken her mother's smallness. Her eyes were the colour of her hair, and her skin was pleasantly tanned, and grew darker still in the sun, but did not burn as her mother's did, nor as many other children's did, and, despite her small size, she liked to eat a lot, and was always pleased to try new foods, though she did not subsist of what her mother did. In her mother's eyes, Deyzi was perfect.

Even at two years, Deyzi did ask a lot of questions about her father. She would, she had decided, be a warrior, like her father. When she grew up, of course. And Thira knew that she would be good, because she'd had the best parents.

* * *

_Title taken from Natasha Bedingfield's _Not Givin' Up.


	2. Chapter 2

**Sinister Beat** by planet p

**Disclaimer** I don't own _Stargate: Atlantis_ or any of its characters.

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2 of 4

**Double Dead**

In the far reaches of outer space, a cargo ship floated aimlessly through the darkness. In this ship, Lydia awoke into the darkness.

She'd boarded the ship on an infiltration mission. The technology that had built and ran the ship was Wraith, not human.

In the past, a past that was not her own, though she had every memory of it, she'd been a leader. She was a clone, a copy, unoriginal.

Soon after her creation, she'd learnt the truth that she was cloned, and that the genetic template from whom she'd been manufactured by the Replicators was deceased. The real Elizabeth Weir, a civilian, a doctor, a leader, had died, and she was the cheap and nasty replacement.

She was not the real leader – or former leader – of the Ancient city of Atlantis, yet Fate seemed determined that her grievance not be permitted to end, though, perhaps it was merely the millions of nano-tiny machines inside her blood, her body, working to heal her body whenever it sustained injury or illness.

Those machines, however, had not saved the clones of Sheppard, McKay, Ronon, and Teyla, who'd been as deceived as she was. She supposed, on reflection, that if they'd taken the offer to relocate to Atlantis, it would have been easier for her, whose original was no longer living, to integrate into society and to live her life as a separate person from the original Elizabeth Weir.

But they'd never had that chance, and the machines inside her – that had failed to save her friends – though they still did their job, seemed to have been damaged. They healed her, as they'd always done, but she was not left without scars. The scars ranged from almost the entire right side of her face, to her right arm, her back, her left side, and the top of her left hand. They did nothing for her beauty, but perhaps they served to separate, or, at least, distance, her from the original Elizabeth.

When she'd first learnt of the deception, those around her, as much as herself, had addressed her as Elizabeth, in the same way they had her original, though she'd later changed her name, to avoid detection by the Replicators, whom she'd fled, though she still contained their machines within her – maybe, when they'd been damaged in the crash, which had been a diversion for the real Sheppard, McKay, Ronon, and Teyla, something in them that transmitted had also been damaged – as much as for her own sake.

She'd taken the name Lydia, and set out to reclaim _her_ life, realising that she could never have reclaimed the life of Elizabeth Weir, because she was not Elizabeth Weir.

As she roused and found herself shrouded in choking darkness, she could not recall clearly why she'd first boarded the Wraith cargo ship.

Struggling to sit, and then stand, she found herself untethered, though her legs were wobbly, and even in the darkness, she felt as a wave of dizziness enveloped her, and dissipated, only to be replaced by another, stronger wave.

Her head felt fuzzy, and she was completely disoriented in the blackness. She had no idea where on the ship she was, or if she was alone.

Except that she felt alone.

She felt so alone.

* * *

Days – or weeks – later, she'd managed to survive and find food, and it had become clear that the cargo ship, though it had most recently been utilised by the Wraith, had not started out life as a Wraith ship, but as a human ship, and had been converted into something half-Wraith, half-human. It was also clear that she was the only one alive on the ship, though she cold not say what had happened to the former Wraith occupants, nor what had happened to their bodies, or where they'd gone.

Though she was alone, she'd managed to rectify the functioning of some of the systems, such as lighting, atmosphere, breathable oxygen, and operability over doors.

She'd even managed to find a cache of human food, of which she particularly enjoyed the dried apricots.

On the downside, the ship had clearly been damaged – somehow, though she could not remember a fight – and would not move, and she had no idea where she was, and if she, or the ship's systems, were in any danger; she'd been able to ascertain that the shields were not operational, and the entire ship was vulnerable, though she'd made what she thought a fairly accurate calculation of how long the food stocks she'd been able to recover would last, and it was far clear of even a single year.

She worked on scanning the ship for damaged sectors, and walked through corridors and compartments, manually checking and establishing which sectors could be sealed down and could remain closed.

* * *

Some days, or weeks later, she was startled from her work, searching for human medical supplies, when she rounded a corner and found herself face-to-face with a male Wraith – at the end of the corridor.

At first, she tried to tell herself that the Wraith had not detected her presence, or that maybe she was seeing things, maybe something she'd eaten hadn't been quite right, but when she'd turned and fled, the sound of the Wraith's pursuing footsteps were loud at her heels.

She knew that she was no match really for the Wraith, but she also knew that she was able to feed on the human food she'd uncovered, and that it was likely that the Wraith had not eaten in some time, and was in a weakened state. Would she be able to outrun it? she wondered. Would she be able to isolate herself in a sector of the ship, and the Wraith in another? And if she was successful, would she be able to keep it from accessing the half-Wraith, half-human ship's control features?

She forced her energies away from her troubling, confusing thoughts, and into her legs. She needed to run.

* * *

"Hey, ugly alien vampire!"

Lydia nearly tripped over her own feet at the sound of another human, or, at least, humanoid voice, but she had no time to stop, or to turn and look. She was tiring, and the Wraith was still behind her. She hurtled onward, around bends, into new corridors.

_You must not stop!_ She repeated the mantra in her mind. If she did, she would surely end up a momentarily satisfying snack for the hungry Wraith.

Except that she could no longer hear its footsteps.

Had it turned back, and found a far tastier meal card? she wondered, fear and intrigue pounding in her heart, with the blood and oxygen.

She plucked the fact from her memory easily. The voice she'd heard had been male. If the voice had ever really existed, would the Wraith dispense of the male, and then come for her? Or would he leave her for later?

If she went back now, if the voice she'd heard belonged to a real person, would they be able to work together to defeat the Wraith? Or had the Wraith already taken its fill of the man?

She turned, panting heavily with the exertion of the sustained effort the getaway had taken from her, she inhaled deep breaths to calm her breathing, and started slowly back the way she'd come.

The voice she'd heard had not sounded Wraith, and if she was not alone, if there'd been another human onboard this ship, and he'd survived, then it was up to her to assist or stand by whilst a person was killed. _Elizabeth would not have chosen to stand by_, she thought.

If she reached the man in time, she would help him.

She'd been so alone on this ship, that the prospect of company compelled her to fasten her pace, so that, despite her exhaustion, she was sprinting back the way she'd come.

She ran, further and further back, but she still did not come upon the Wraith. Had the man fled? she wondered. Had the Wraith, perhaps, taken chase?

When she came to what she thought was the corridor she'd fled into in her flight from the Wraith, when she'd heard the voice, she could barely hear her own footfalls from the rush of pumping blood in her ears, and heavy breaths.

A sudden image sprung into view before her eyes. The man was dead, if he'd ever existed. She would turn the corner and set eyes upon an empty, drained body, almost a skeleton. She would never know his name, and his family would never know what had become of him.

She shivered bodily and shook the mental image from her mind. She did not want to see that, yet she could not walk away.

She took a tentative step forward and closed her eyes. She knew that when she opened her eyes, the Wraith would be waiting for her, so she told herself that she would not open her eyes.

At least, she would not die alone.

* * *

Blind, she shuffled forward, and emerged into the adjoining corridor, then, beneath the heavy beat of her heart, sounds started to drift toward her, sounds of a struggle, and her eyes flew open.

The man was not dead!

But-

He should have been.

He had been.

The Wraith was alive also, she noted.

She struggled to shrug of the confusion and panic mounting in her chest and brain. She could not take in what she was seeing.

The man threw the Wraith from him, and it flew across the corridor and hit the wall hard, but it did not fall down.

Lydia tried to open her mouth, tried to call out to the man. They could run. They could both run. Maybe they'd make it. But the sounds wouldn't come out.

The Wraith lunged toward the man, and the man thrust his arm out to hold it back, palm flat against the Wraith's chest, and the Wraith froze.

At first, Lydia thought the Wraith was merely figuring out its next move, how best to kill the man, and then move onto her – who'd been stupid enough to come back for the man – but then she realised that it was immobile; it could not move even if it wanted to.

The Wraith attempted to throw the man's hand off its chest, but, as though, weakened, its hand merely slipped from the man's arm – and it burst into cold, grey ash.

Lydia let out a cry of surprise and fright, and stumbled backward and tripped up her feet and sprawled backward as the ash settled around her, causing her to choke.

Ford walked toward her, and reached out an arm and offered her his hand. "Alright, ma'am?" he asked, the eye that had once been completely black now a clouded over version of his one good eye.

Lydia stared at him for an instant, before taking his hand. She would have to explain to him that she was not Elizabeth Weir, she thought.


	3. Chapter 3

**Sinister Beat** by planet p

**Disclaimer** I don't own _Stargate: Atlantis_ or any of its characters. I don't own the songs _Funhouse_, or _It's All Your Fault_, performed by P!nk.

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3 of 4

**Twist**

At the end of the world, there was a new world.

He'd been asleep, for so, so long. At first, the waking process was hard, and so he was assisted into a medically induced coma.

In the year 12,009 A.D., Tayanita was a paramedic with a deep space archaeological search team. The gig was dangerous, but it had its cultural benefits, Tayanita supposed.

Back in the bad ole days of the first Earth, she'd been told that she'd have been categorised as 'Species, Human,' 'Nationality, Native American,' 'Abilities, Special.' In 12,009, she was categorised as a 'human-type shapeshifter;' her shift specialty was the coyote. To old ears, that made her a werecoyote, or carnival attraction.

She'd been inoculated with the upgrades at one month gestation, in a factory that specialised as carnival outfitters, supplying the live 'attractions.' She'd worked with a travelling carnival until the age of 16, Space-faring Class X-TAZ-885, when she'd been 'rescued' from the 'inhumanities,' institutionalised and debriefed. She remained in the institution on Dawn until she was 21, when she'd been released into society.

This was the new world, into which Tayanita had been born-

And Kavanaugh woke, 10,000 years into the future.

* * *

He woke on a hard plastic bed in the infirmary of deep space vessel, Artemisia's Arms, and promptly set about retching up his stomach contents, of which, after a ten century sleep, he was devoid.

P!nk blasted loudly throughout the room, and he blinked open eyes, squinted – Jesus, it was bright! – to see a figure – a woman, he decided, noting the curves – dancing, spinning, belting out words along to music.

_I'm gonna burn it down, down, down_

She twisted, twisted, down to the floor, twisting on bare feet, and back up again, to do it all over again.

He felt very ill. He was bringing up his insides, after all, he considered. He watched the woman and felt a little bit better, though a great deal more confused.

Where was he? And why had a one-woman cabaret act taken over Kellar's ward? And where was Kellar?

The infirmary took a sharp list and he was pitched from the bed onto the floor, narrowly avoiding landing in his own puke. He hurt, a lot.

The woman cursed in an unknown language – Was the Latin? – and jumped to her feet, spun, and spied him awake, on the floor.

Kavanaugh watched as her eyes went large and she pelted out of the infirmary as if chased by a banshee, or similar some such. _Wraith_, Kavanaugh thought dryly, before he was retching again. Jesus, Mary Magdalene, it hurt!

All around him, P!nk continued to blast away, multiplying the hurt inside.

_It's all your fault, you called me beautiful_

The beautiful woman returned with two men and a woman, the three newcomers dressed in orange; one man and the woman in plastic suits, maybe, and a man in an orange overall.

The overall man brought to mind a mechanic, Kavanaugh thought vaguely through his pain and general state of tiredness.

The orange suit woman gasped, raised a hand to her throat, and turned her head quickly to peer at the beautiful woman, wide eyed. "Oh my, it's alive!" she gasped in a language Kavanaugh understood, but in an accent he'd never heard before.

The orange suit man clapped a hand to both woman's upper arms, one hand for each woman. "I guess, it's a lucky thing then, that the C.O.D. doctor's late, again. By a mighty sight."

Kavanaugh blinked, and attempted to shake his head. It hurt, too much. He gasped. That hurt, too. "I don't," his voice was a rasp, unrecognisable.

Orange Suit Woman shrieked, simultaneously fearful and delighted, leaping backward. "It talks!" she howled, clasping her neck so tightly now that Kavanaugh worried that she might actually be constricting her breathing passages by the pressure. She jumped up and down and wiggled one leg to the music, eyes gleaming. "It talks!" she howled, positively gleaming and glowing. Eyes, lips, complexion.

Kavanaugh slowly wondered why her eyes were pale yellow. Maybe it was just the light, he thought rationally.

She squealed and began jumping up and down again, waving arms. She jumped up and down, turning in circles on the spot.

The beautiful woman grinned. "What do you think it was saying?" she asked her small group.

Overall man scratched the side of his neck. "I don't know about you lot, but if you ask me, it looks like a he."

Orange Suit Woman stopped jumping, and shrieked shrilly.

Kavanaugh squeezed his eyes closed tight at the sound.

"Century?" a new voice asked, out of breath, with the arrival of loud footfalls.

"Sorry, doc, looks like it's a liver, this time," Orange Suit Man offered condolences.

"My, you're absolutely correct!" the C.O.D. doctor marvelled. "How did that turn about?"

"Not sure, doc," Orange Suit Man replied.

"My name is Kavanaugh," Kavanaugh gasped, rasping. "I'm a human, from the planet Earth, in the Milkyway Galaxy. I'm an American!"

A chorus of mixed shocked expressions and a drop of the jaw from Orange Suit Woman, for the first time, completely silent, met this revelation.

"Earth First?" Orange Suit Man asked, uncertain.

Overall Man scratched his neck, and cast a glanced in the doctor's direction.

"Daniels?" the doctor questioned, turning to Orange Suit Woman, who shut her mouth. He added, somewhat apologetic, "I mean, you are the historian."

Daniels patted her chest compulsively, and fainted.

* * *

Kavanaugh woke to silence, or the closest thing to it he'd heard since he'd woken in this infirmary.

Daniels had been placed upon a bed beside his own, unconscious.

A drip had been inserted into a vein in his arm, and Kavanaugh frowned at it for a long moment, possibly ten minutes, before he was joined in the Land of the Awake by the beautiful woman.

"Better now?" she asked.

He nodded in response, pretending he didn't feel the pain.

The woman spent some time checking his vitals – she had warm hands, soft hands – and then began taking samples for testing.

She had him lie back, on his stomach, and shoved a hot needle right through his skull into his brain. He would have screamed, had he been able to move.

The immobilisation lasted five minutes or more, suffice to say, when he turned over, grasping the back of his head with one hand, he found himself, once again, alone, save for Daniels.

The woman returned with what might have been one of McKay's 'tablets,' and held it to her chest possessively. "Literate?" she asked, as though she might think otherwise.

He nodded, pushing aside pain.

She surrendered the tablet, turned on her heel, and marched out.

Kavanaugh watched her out. She had a gorgeous walk he thought he could watch all day. He remembered the tablet, and dragged his eyes downward from the thin air he'd been gaping into.

After having scrolled through an extensive portion of its contents, he decided that the tablet appeared to contain historical information, and was, possibly, the equivalent of a textbook. His eyes felt bugged out and bleary. He'd just decided to give the tablet a rest for the moment, when he saw the section headed: 2010-19.

He felt sick, very sick.

From the other bed, Daniels coughed loudly, and he started.

The tablet leapt from his hands and clattered to the floor. He stared at it for a long moment before slipping out of bed gingerly to retrieve it.

* * *

Daniels polished off all of his- well, he supposed it was water, and finished her history lesson of the second millennia, voice thrilled, eyes lit with excitement.

Kavanaugh did his best to ignore the strangeness of her yellow eyes, and the awkward feeling of being a successful science experiment. He remembered feeling exactly the same way in second grade, when he'd played an asparagus in the school play – and then the humiliation, when he realised that it was only his mother who found him, or, for that matter, his costume, cute! It should have been a sure thing, he always reflected, when his father had declared 'no comment' immunity.

Daniels didn't laugh at him, and then she proceeded to navigate the turbulent third millennia.

Kavanaugh's throat closed over, in his shock, preventing him from speech – though inside, he wanted to. He wanted to scream!

Everyone-

Everything-

He thought he'd known-

He'd just began to get a grip on-

Was-

Obliterated!

* * *

Later, he was released from the infirmary.

Daniels showed him to the infirmary and they ate something. Kavanaugh didn't know its name, nor did he care.

He watched the beautiful woman and knew that he didn't stand a chance.

Daniels laughed and he didn't hear her.

* * *

_If you know how to spell Kavanaugh, or his first name, I'd appreciate it. Thanks for reading. Any thoughts would be marvellous._


	4. Chapter 4

**Sinister Beat** by planet p

**Disclaimer** I don't own _Stargate: Atlantis_ or any of its characters.

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4 of 4

**Dancer in the Forest**

She's in his dreams, in a forest, alone. There are no trees in this forest, but trees of rock. All around her, rock.

Her feet are cut and bloody, bare, staining the rocks red in her wake, marking out a track. Blood, on the bottoms of her feet, makes the rocks slippery.

He doesn't know why he dreams of her, nor in this way. Later, he learns of her death. She remains in his dreams.

She is a child, running through a desert, pitching over branches, or roots, or rocks, over scrub and brush and bushes, and trash from the city's outskirts, the suburb where she lives. She runs, possessed by the wind, unstopping, faltering only to fall, and pick herself back up. And then, ahead, in the distance, he sees a second form. A second child.

She isn't running, she is chasing.

Bawling, at the top of her lungs, dry with the parched air, sun beating down, baking the earth, and its creatures, from above.

To hear her voice, the way it is in this dream, makes something in his sleeping self hurt.

He sees from a distance, as a long, thin creature rises up, and strikes the child, and in a blinding, jarring flash, they are no longer children, but teenagers, and the elder falters, and falls forward, hitting the ground.

The creature makes its getaway.

The younger of the teenagers never stops, until she reaches the elder, and falls down too. She is talking, constantly, forgetting to breathe, trying to comfort. Nothing helps.

It isn't just the creature's bite that has hurt the other. He sees the blood, and understands that the elder is soon to pass. The younger is crying, smearing blood on the both of them as she attempts to pull the other to her feet. She doesn't see the end, maybe, she doesn't want to.

She is confused, saying that her sister had just broken up with her boyfriend, saying that she understood why she'd taken the drugs – she loved him – saying that she'd get help – no – they'd go together – Oh, please, God!

"I love you!" she rants, then howls.

The elder is gone, he sees it in her eyes. He's seen it so many times before.

The younger doesn't know, about the baby that the elder killed, the baby that was safe and warm inside her, snug and happy, until it was ripped from her, in bloody pieces.

She loved that boy, but he didn't love their baby.

Michael is woken abruptly, with the curious need to be ill. If he were human, perhaps the need would have manifested itself.

He attempts to sleep once more, and she is once again in the forest of rock, free from the cries of youth, and of unborn babies, and slithering creatures.

She cannot walk anymore, and sits down upon the rock, drawing her knees close to her, as though to hold them to her, as though they were the lost sister of her youth, and cries.

Blood falls from the cuts in her feet, and slithers down the rock; little red rivers, and red waterfalls.

He remembers that she is gone, and recalls the room in which they talked. He thinks, for a moment, that he could regret those moments in that room; not for himself, but for her.

When he wakes, he ponders why that is; why does he care?

He remembers her hair; she had lovely hair, for a human. He remembers the hesitancy he'd sensed in her, but chose to ignore over the largeness of his own problems and injustices. The way she'd try to catch his eye, but then he turned away.

Was she glad for that? he wonders, as foolish as it is.

Now, he wonders, and is curious, after she has passed. An odd thing, he thinks. But perhaps they are imbued of the same affliction? Perhaps he can think of it now. Now that it is safe, and there is no possibility of ever re-writing history, of ever changing events, making amends. She is dead, after all.

_Safe is the new dead_, he thinks, and hates himself for a small moment, a capsule in time. He has never been able to hate what he is, but even beasts and savages have feelings. In that moment, he hates what he was not.

She dances in his dreams, barefoot, in a forest. There are trees in her forest, and moss and grasses. There are vines and creeping things and shrubs and saplings; reeds and rushes and sedges. Among the light and the shade, she dances to the billabong.

And floats, asleep, underwater, forevermore.

Her hair is as lovely as he remembers it, little bubbles like beads clinging to its strands, like seaweed swaying in the ocean currents.

For once, her eyes don't look away; they look on and on, into forever.

He looks back into them, and it's like drowning, he thinks. He understands now, what she feels.

He feels it too.

* * *

_The dancer is Kate Heightmeyer. Thankyou for reading.__ Of the four, this is my favourite pairing. Reviews would be lovely._


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